Fable, The New Age
by princebejitasama
Summary: 2000 years after the Crawler's death, Albion is reborn, returned to the old ways by the power of the Spire. The world is at peace again... Or is it?  W/ Chicken Chaser, Sparrow, Scythe, Reaver, Theresa, Jack and OCs. Feedback, please!
1. Prologue: Dawn of a New World

**PROLOGUE:** The Dawn of a New Age.

The King of Albion stood on the crumbling ramparts and battlements, hailing to the people below. The Darkness had been driven from the world at last, and a time of peace would surely follow.

The crowds below cheered, screamed and cried together as one, rejoicing that their suffering was gone. With a final wave to his subjects, the King turned and walked back into the Castle. It was over.

He walked alone; Page, Sabine, Ben, Walter and Kalin were all most likely recuperating from the battle with the Crawler and it's mysterious legions now. Not that the King minded.

To his great delight, he found the Throne Room completely empty. He walked up the hall and sank into the giant chair, closing his eyes and breathing a sigh of relief.

"You did it, Brother." The King's eyes snapped open and fell on his older brother and former king.

"Logan… You gave me quite the fright." He said, blinking and sitting up more straight. "But yes, tis over at last."

Logan sank into the chair beside the throne, wiping the dust and grime of battle from his face. Even with his lack of heroic ability, he hadn't escaped the fighting all together. "You did what I could not." Logan said, almost regretfully. "I tried to save my people, but I became the very thing that I stood against. A monster."

The King sat forward and placed his hand on Logan's shoulder. "No, Logan. You did your best. Your methods were, verily, questionable. But your intentions were always pure."

"The road to Skorm's Realm is paved with good intentions." Logan said, but with the hint of a smile. "You saved your people. _Our _people. And you did so without becoming a plague on Albion, as I did. Mother would have been so proud."

Silence fell on the brother's, as they were lost now in memories. Memories of their Mother, the Hero Queen, flashbacks to their childhood, thoughts and reflections over the recent years. It would be a good deal of time, not until the wounded had been tended to and the dead lamented, that they would look to the future.

As the sun set behind the castle, the rejoicing crowds thinned out and dispersed. The merry-making would be put on hold for a few days at least, but for now the people would rest happily, knowing they were alive.

They were so overjoyed that they didn't pay heed to the rather strange looking man in their midst. Swathed in a heavy travelling cloak, covered in mummy-like bandages, with an ornate scythe strapped to his back, the man had almost appeared from nowhere right at the end of the battle and joined the thronging crowds outside the castle.

The man stood alone in the courtyard for quite sometime, staring up at the castle. His face, hidden behind the bandages, was unreadable. But his posture was easy enough to decipher: Relieved.

When the sun had fully set, almost as though he'd been waiting for the cue, he turned on his heel and walked off through the battered streets, his cloak swishing in the light breeze that blew in from the coast.

True night had fallen by the time that William Black (also known as Scythe) passed through the unguarded gates of Bowerstone and gazed towards the sea. The full moon hung in the sky above a tall, black rise out in the water; The Tattered Spire. The Last Archon narrowed his eyes at the Spire, annoyance rising within him. "Why didn't you help, Seeress?" he muttered in his raspy, gravelly voice. "You could have driven the scourge from Albion with ease. Yet…. Ah, maybe one day you'll learn…" The Last Archon, the King of the Old Kingdom shook his head regretfully, wrapping his cloak around him more tightly and moved away down the path towards Bower Lake.

His thoughts now drifted to the future, and what lay ahead for the world. With the Crawler and his nightmare legions gone, surely nothing would trouble Albion or her people. Theresa had control of the Spire, and nobody would ever take it from her.

What William didn't factor into his thoughts were the hearts and minds of men, and how easy they were to corrupt. Wealth, power, fame… Most men would slay their best friend to gain those. And as it would turn out, over the next two thousand years, many WILL kill for personal gain. If the Last Archon had known, mayhap he would not have left Albion at that point in time.

But he didn't know, so he returned to the Land beyond the seas. Albion prospered under the Hero of Brightwall and his descendants for many years in peace, but it wouldn't last forever. The age of technology came, and men fought with strange weapons that were dropped from the skies and burned the world.

The Balverines, Hollow-Men, Hobbes and other dangerous beasts were all but wiped out, and as their numbers dwindled they were forced into Zoos to be stared at and tormented by the "more advanced" yet horribly less intelligent people of the new world.

The only relic from the old days which remained was the Spire. Many had tried to enter it, or destroy it, but were repeatedly thwarted by "The Witch of the Tower". Theresa found their attempts at taking her precious Spire rather entertaining. As though they could ever remove her from her tower, the fools.

Slowly but surely, Albion began to tear itself apart under the weight of war. Brother fought Brother over almost anything they could think of, as though they simply needed an excuse to tear each other apart. The fighting continued and continued, until most of this "civilized" world lay smashed and broken, and finally, Theresa stepped in.

Using the power of the Spire, she laid waste to the machines of the world and stripped it bare. A new start, as it were. An end to the chaos and destruction.

When the people of Albion emerged into the world again, they found a peaceful and tranquil world. The buildings, roads and weapons of the age were gone, and they had no knowledge of them anymore. They knew nothing of the world before, and men who would have killed each other not too long ago now stood beside one another as friends, helping to rebuild and create.

The only signs of civilization left were crumbling ruins from a much older age, before the world fell into war and darkness.

But not all was light and happiness in this new world. Out of the darkness came the monsters and creatures of old. Balverines stalked the forests, Hobbes made homes in the dank caves and deep underground, the Undead crept from the shadows of crypts. Even Trolls, Banshees and the Giant Scorpions returned to the world.

It was a dangerous world indeed, but with the destruction and hatred of mankind gone from Albion, the people were better off. Many of the old crafts returned to them, and the people of Albion soon built sturdy homes and guarded them with keen blades and bows.

In this time of peace, no ruler was elected, and no man or woman sat on the throne. With plenty of food and land to spare, they felt it unnecessary to call forth a monarch to hold sway over the lands.

Only two aspects of the old world remained; A fear of the Witch of the Tower had lived on, as had a dislike of anyone deemed to be a Hero. Of course, the old arts of Strength, Skill and Will returned to a select few, but the broken halls of the old Guild remained empty. And none since the Hero Queen had been able to wield all three arts at once.

For now, Albion was safe.

But again, that peace would not last forever…


	2. Chapter 1: The Guild Reborn

**CHAPTER ONE:** The Guild Reborn.

When Scythe returned to the world, after 2000 years of slumber, he was shocked to find that the world was a very different place. Not that he hadn't expected some form of change, but this…

The world he looked out on, as he stood on top of a high, rolling hill, bared the signs of a society that had receded, rather than advanced. There were far less people, the roads were made of pressed gravel rather than cobbled stones, and none of the larger stone buildings existed anymore.

It was though Albion had been broken, and rebuilt from the remains. It reminded him of a time when the Guild had been thriving under the guidance of Nostro and Bowerstone had been no more than a moderately busy merchant centre.

He had returned as the sun had only just begun it's descent towards the Western mountain ranges, mountains that had definitely not been there when the Crawler had been destroyed by Albion's King. It was with confusion in his heart that he gazed back towards the Sea; The Spire was gone.

Thoughts plaguing his mind, William Black strode down the hill, hopping over a rough wooden fence and crossing the wide open fields. Without realizing it, he was headed towards the old Guild, which in the last 2000 years had been revealed by the slowly shrinking Bower Lake. The once huge Lake was now no more than a few flowing streams that snaked past the remains of Hero Hill and moved out to the sea.

A pinkish-orange glow rested on the land, as twilight approached. Faint stars could be seen in the eastern skies and a deep, dark forest loomed ahead. He passed into the trees, drawing his cloak about him to keep the cold out. A thick mist descended upon the trees, and Scythe's breath came out in foggy puffs of air.

Then, he heard something. Something approaching him. The snap of a twig, the rustle of a cloak, the jingling of bells. He halted, eyes peeled, trying to discern something in the fog. He heard them, before he saw them.

"William Black, the Last Archon, King of the Old World." A deep, husky female voice rolled out, seemingly from all around him. "Returning to Albion after two thousand years. My my, the years haven't been kind to you." Theresa stepped through the trees, her eyes glowing faintly, a smirk on her lips.

Scythe turned to look at her, a small smile lifting his mouth. "Theresa, Seeress of the Spire. Last living relative of the Jack Slayer." He swept her a curt bow. "A pleasure to see you away from the Tower at long last."

Theresa tittered lightly. "Oh I've been amongst the mortals for some time now. I, after all, am the one who took them back to the old ways, after all."

"So you did use the Spire, then." William muttered, gazing at her. Never, he thought, would she use the power of the Spire for anyone but herself. "How did it all happen?"

"Oh it's quite the thrilling tale." She said with mock bravado. "Come, let us walk." She tilted her head to the side, clasping her hands before her, and set off through the trees. William walked behind her, listening to her tell the tale of the fall of man.

She told him of the rise of technology. The way society fell into ruins. The lies and deception. The death. The chaos and anarchy.

"Eventually, they even lost their fear of the Old Witch. But their attempts to burn her out were foolhardy at best." She had been speaking for nearly an hour, and by now, the trees were thinning towards the end of the Forest. "The World was brought to it's knees. Then I was forced to act."

"You weren't wrong… That was indeed quite the tale." William's head was bowed in thought. "But… Why wait so long to act? Surely you could have saved so many lives by intervening sooner?"

Theresa halted, and her voice became serious and grim. "I am not a caretaker or custodian, William. The stupidity of these people is not, and never _was _my concern. They were free to go blowing each other up until the end of days, for all I cared. But Albion was beginning to fall apart. I did what I did for the world, not the people in it. Hear me very well when I say that."

The tone in her voice was icy cold. Scythe didn't object or argue the point with her.

"Now, moving on." She said, resuming her pacing and adopting a more businesslike tone. "Before long, I think the world will be ready for the Heroes again. Don't you agree?"

"I… You mean…" The rebirth of the Guild. Yes of course. The deadly beasts were multiplying, as Scythe would soon learn. There would be need for heroes to protect and save. "Yes, you're right."

"We are agreed then." She nodded once, raising her arm and pointing away through the fog, towards the Guild. "You seem to still want to protect the people of Albion, so I suggest you get to work. The Guild is in ruins, and there is no one to lead them."

Scythe looked in the direction she was pointing, spying the dim outline of the Guild bathed in moonlight. "Not for long." Of course, he couldn't lead the Guild back into power himself. Avo knew he was too old for such a task. He did, however, have just the perfect person in mind. Someone who led the Guild through it's darkest time, and saw them safely out on the other side. Someone who died before their time was up.

"Very well." She inclined her head towards him, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth. "It was good to see you again, William. I wish you luck."

"As with you, Theresa."

The Seeress disappeared in an eerie blue glow, leaving Scythe alone at the edge of the woods. He had a goal to achieve now. Admittedly, he was disappointed with Theresa's attitude regarding the people of Albion, but it wasn't unexpected.

First thing's first. He'd need to deal with the condition of the Guild before restoring a Guild Master. His mind set, he moved off through the shadows and out of the woods.


	3. Chapter 2: One to lead us

**CHAPTER TWO:**One to lead us.

All was quiet within the Guild. Nothing had entered this place for hundreds and hundreds of years. The only sound to be heard was the slow, almost rhythmic drip of water in the deep.

The Halls still bore the wounds from the night that the people of Albion decided the Heroes weren't to be trusted, and laid waste to the sanctuary. The bookshelves were shattered and burned, dust blanketed every surface, and broken stone littered the floor. No light filtered into the Guild. Inside was everlasting night.

Suddenly, a dull thud echoes through the halls. A second thud follows, dust and debris being shaken from the ceiling, while piercing bright light blasts into the Guild in rays. Finally, an echoing bang, as an old door is blasted inwards and breaks against the remains of the old Map Table.

Scythe stepped into the ruined hall, covering his mouth to block the dust, his eyes squinting in the darkness. "Well… This is going to take longer than I thought…" His gaze roved the room, falling on the broken staircases that led to nothing, the cave-ins.

There was nothing for it but to take a look and see what he had to work with. So, gathering a fistful of flames, he walked carefully into the Guild itself.

From the looks, he had very little to work with. Barely anything remained of the old Guild and its grounds. It seemed like it would be a complete overhaul, if not a rebuild from the ground up. The only thing he had in his favor was that time had almost eroded Hero Hill, meaning that part's of the old stone ramparts were now exposed to the world. He wouldn't need to break apart a mountain to make the Guild accessible, and he silently thanked Avo; He doubted he could have done it, at his age.

After pushing an old bookcase out of the way, he descended the steps towards the Chamber of Fate. This was the place where most of the work would be done. The site of Jack's death, the hall displaying the life of the boy from Oakvale. There was still much magic to be found here, and even after nearly 2500 years, it was completely undamaged.

He ascended the steps, standing in the centre of the raised circle platform, gazing at the portraiture around him. How long ago had these portraits been painted? And who had the artist been? Scythe either couldn't remember, or he never knew to begin with. Many of them had faded over time, but he could see Twinblade cutting Theresa's eyes out, the Jackslayer with Whisper, standing together in the Arena…

No, no time to reflect on the past. There was much work to do.

Sweeping his cloak aside, Scythe kneeled on the platform, running his hand along the Guild Seal etched into the floor. The metallic pattern responded to his touch, flashing with blue energy as wisps of aura trailed into the air around him. He rose and took a step back, closing his eyes.

For a full 5 minutes he stood stock still, slowing his breathing while the magic of the Guild swept around him in a vortex. Then he opened his eyes, uttering a single word; "Weaver."

The swirling blue mana took on a fever pitch, whipping around like a tornado. Slowly but surely, it began to solidify, taking the form of a small, slightly bent man. The magical column of light disappeared entirely, and Weaver, the former Guildmaster, opened his eyes.

"You summoned me, William?" he asked conversationally, as if being brought back from the afterlife 2500 years after dying was a routine, everyday thing. His slightly rheumy eyes flittered across the battered chamber, and he blinked quickly, gripping the cane in his right hand tightly. "My goodness, is that what this is about?"

"Indeed it is, Weaver." Replied Scythe in a business-like tone. "The world has changed again. It's going to need heroes."

"Oh I see." Weaver muttered, returning his gaze to William as he rubbed his tattooed forehead in frustration. "I take it that you want _me _to rebuild the Guild? I may not be quite as old as you, my friend, but I think I've transcended 'Elderly' by now." His voice was one of annoyance, but his mustache twitched slightly; The old man was hiding a smile.

Scythe let out a dry, rasping chuckle. "There's still plenty of strength left in those old bones. And the Guild will need a strong leader. You are the best man for the job, in my opinion."

"Flattery will get you no where." Weaver finally cracked a grin. "At any rate, just look at this place." He gestured around the battered room. "I can't train young heroes in a place like this. And I'm no mason. The best I could do is to shout and wave my walking stick at the walls and hope it all falls into place."

"I do not expect you to physically rebuild the Guild." Scythe said, inclining his head respectfully. "Not alone, at least. I will help you in that regard, and I'm sure that you could find people willing to assist you."

Weaver rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course. I'm sure people would jump at the opportunity. Come now, let's have no pretence. You know how the Guild fell. The people of Albion distrust us, fear us."

"That was then. This is now. You say you are old, but I'm sure you could still vanquish a Balverine or a pack of troublesome Hobbes if presented with one." Scythe said all this slowly, as if trying to put a point across.

Weaver seemed to follow. "Save the people, win their trust. Yes, of course. You're right, as usual." The old man didn't quite enjoy the prospect of wandering around Albion, fighting deadly creatures. But he trusted Scythe's judgment, and knew that if the task truly was beyond him, Scythe wouldn't have called him in the first place. He also knew that there really wasn't anyone else for it. True, there had been better warriors than he, but a level head and willingness to teach and impart knowledge was needed here. "Very well." He sighed after a moment's pause. "I'll do it."

"Excellent." Scythe clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew I could count on you, Weaver."

It would be a lot of work, according to Weaver's guesses. Years, at least, before the Guild was operational. And then there would be the time it took to train youngsters, to craft weapons. Then he had to factor in the time it took for him to walk across Albion. He wondered if the Guild Seals and Cullis Gates would work, after all this time.

"Some of the Cullis Gates are still in tact, but only a few of them are operational." Muttered Scythe as the pair descended the steps of the raised platform. He seemed to have been thinking along the same lines. "The one which originally stood at the fork near Bowerstone and the Guild is still there."

"Would it even still _be _Bowerstone?" Weaver asked, coming to an abrupt halt. "I'd wager that quite a deal of time has passed between the end of Jack and now. Surely the landmarks have changed."

Scythe nodded in agreement. "The world has indeed moved on. But when it started new, the people found maps and writings of the Old World. When they rebuilt, it was to those designs, more or less. Of course Bowerstone now may not lie precisely where it did before the End, but it is all mostly the same."

From a pocket within his cloak, Scythe pulled an ancient golden disc, slightly larger than a coin. It was, of course, a Guild Seal. Without a word, he handed it to Weaver, who understood what he must do next.

"Fare thee well, Weaver." Scythe said with a bow to the old Hero.

Weaver merely smiled, clutching the Seal tightly in his fist. Despite the arduous task ahead of him, he felt good, to be out and about again. To be alive. He disappeared with a flash of blue light, leaving Scythe alone once again.


	4. Chapter 3: Dreams

**CHAPTER THREE:** Dreams.

For the next 10 years, Weaver set out on the road, spreading the word that the Heroes were returning. Bowerstone had been his first stop, dispatching a nest of giant wasps which had invaded the little town square. After initial distrust, Weaver's act and words touched the hearts of the people, and they accepted his message gladly. Yes, they said. When the time comes, we will lend aid to the Guild, as you have for us.

So on he went, traveling through the expansive realm of Albion. Sometimes he would defend a farm or two from a bandit raid, others he'd rescue traders from a pack of Hobbes. Everywhere he went, he would provide help, and ask for it in return. The answer was invariably "Yes" each time.

Back at the Guild, Scythe had slowly but surely breathed life into the old halls. With the assistance of a handful of workers from nearby Bowerstone and Westcliff, they had slowly but surely excavated the outer walls of the Guild and repaired the ancient battlements. It was a good start to a long and difficult job, one that would probably still be continuing even when Weaver returned from his wandering.

The task was made all the more difficult without the Cullis Gates. As he moved from town to town and place to place, Weaver would rediscover the ancient traveling portals. Using the Guild Seal, he was able to restore them to working order. Despite a desire for a warm, comfortable bed and a roof over his head, the wizened old man would press on.

After 10 years, 10 long years of wandering, the Guildmaster sat on a crumbling wall outside a small fishing village named Bargate. The wall he was sitting on, in fact, was all that remained of the old Bargate Prison. It may have been his imagination, but the town itself had seemed rather dull and dreary, as though the vibe and energy of the prison itself lived on despite its physical existence being terminated.

He wiped his sweaty face with a handkerchief, just having removed a small legion of Hollow Men (or, as he knew them, the Undead) from the Cemetery. He was willing to be they were a remnant of the creatures who had once called Lychfield Graveyard home. "Neither here nor there." He muttered to himself.

The wall he sat on overlooked the Ocean, a slate mass of churning water. Far away into the distance, barely a speck on the horizon, was a small island of frozen mountains. In the long ago, it had been the Northern Wastes, Snowspire, and Necropolis. From the various books he'd read, and the words of the coastal villagers, the island was uninhabited by man or beast. A few expeditions had been made to the island, but no one had wanted to dwell there. They had called the place "unwholesome".

With a grunt, Weaver rose and tucked his handkerchief into his pocket. He picked up his cane, and took hold of the Guild Seal once more. "Time to head home. With luck, William will at least have the kitchens ready. I do miss having a nice cup of tea before bed." He chuckled to himself, knowing full well that there would be no tea this evening. Maybe not for several evenings. With another blue flash, the Guildmaster disappeared.

When he materialized outside the Guild, his mouth fell open. It wasn't exactly the way he remembered it, but it was certainly very close. The stone walls looked beautiful in the late afternoon sun, a few flags flying merrily in the spring breeze. The giant oak doors were restored, and a bronze Guild Seal covered its face.

The old man smiled, happy to see his home once again. He pushed open the doors, which creaked slightly on it's hinges, and stepped into the entrance hall.

Torches blazed from brackets on the wall, candles sparkled from a huge steel chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Scythe (and the people of Albion) had spared no expense in rebuilding the home of the Heroes.

"Welcome home, old one." Scythe's voice drifted to him from the centre of the room, sitting in a chair by the newly created map table. He looked up at Weaver, and smiled. The smile was rare, full of life. Enough to almost reveal the man he had been when he had ruled the Old Kingdom.

"You've quite the hide to go calling _me_ old, William." Chuckled Weaver, descending the steps as Scythe rose from his seat. "It's wonderful. Simply wonderful."

Scythe grasped hands with Weaver, his own eyes roaming across the Guild, as if to confirm that yes, it did indeed look wonderful. "All the thanks cannot be given to me." He said gruffly. "The people of Albion did much. As have you."

The Guildmaster stepped over to the map table, looking down on it. The towns and realms were marked, as were the seas and forest, in remarkably accurate detail. "And now, all I have to do is find suitable youngsters to train in the ancient ways." If asked 10 years ago, he would have been doubtful of finding any who were capable of wielding the arts. That was before he'd met the sword-wielding farmer who had assisted him with vanquishing a pack of Balverine, or the little girl with the odd ability to start a fire with neither flint nor tinder. There were heroes out there, even now.

The two men talked long into the afternoon. The sun sank towards the western mountains, then disappeared behind them. When they had finished talking, the last faint glow of sunset had disappeared.

"Well, my work here is complete." Scythe said quietly, as he and the Guildmaster stood in the courtyard in the picturesque grounds. Fireflies flitted through the air, the soft thrumming of their wings barely audible over the gently babbling stream.

"You're leaving already?" asked Weaver, visibly surprised by the news. "I thought you would have stayed another day longer, at the very least."

Scythe shook his head. "No, my time here is up. You are here, and the future of the Guild is left to you. It seems only fitting that you be the one to lead it out of the darkness of history."

"Of course. Shall I see you again, William?"

Scythe pondered this question for a few moments, bowing his head slightly. When he raised it and met Weaver's gaze, he smiled. "When you reach the path at the end of the clearing, we shall meet again."

They said their goodbyes, and Weaver had returned to the Guild. It was now three stories high, the upper two levels being the living quarters for future Heroes and Apprentices alike. The ground level held the Entrance and Dining Halls, along with the Guild supply stores, newly restored library, merchant shop and food stores. The Chamber of Fate had been left untouched, as a testimony to the old Heroes. Weaver felt it was a very touching gesture.

That night, he climbed the short stair case to the Guildmaster's quarters and, exhausted, fell asleep almost immediately after his head had touched the pillow. Rather than the deep, peaceful sleep he had been expecting, Weaver slipped into troubling nightmares.

In his dreams, he was being chased, hunted by dark shadowy shapes with burning red eyes. He was running, running from Avo only knew what kind of fiend, through the forest. Suddenly, he found his way barred by a towering figure. The figure's face was hidden in the shadows of the blood red hood it wore, but the crimson eyes staring mercilessly out at him, and the high, cackling voice could not be mistaken.

"You miserable old fool. Look at you, clinging to your old ways, trying to drag the Guild from the ashes of yesteryear!" Jack of Blades cackled a high, mirthless laugh. "You shall fail. I shall see Albion in flames, and there is no one to stop me this time!"

As Jack laughed insanely, the forest around them leaped up into immediate flames. It was as though Hell had been brought to Albion, and the world was indeed burning.

Weaver sat bolt upright, drenched in a cold sweat, trembling from head to foot. "N-no… no, it was… it was just a dream…" he muttered, staring around the room. He tried to convince himself it wasn't real. But deep down, he saw it for what it was. An omen.

He put the dream aside for now, and returned to sleep. He would address the situation when there was something he could do about it. Right now, he was simply an old man with a nice new home. And despite part of him believing this was a sign that dark days were ahead, he resolved himself not to act too swiftly or rashly, in case he'd been mistaken.

There was nothing to do but to go out again, finding those with Heroic capabilities, and train them to defend the people of Albion.


	5. Chapter 4: Amongst the Living

**CHAPTER FOUR:** Amongst the Living.

Of course, not all those capable of wielding a sword or winding a crossbow were Heroes. Some were greedy ruffians, others miserable tricksters and con men. The majority of these wicked souls had come together to form loose groups of bandits and thieves. A handful had even taken to the seas, becoming the first pirates in Albion since before the war.

Not far from Bloodstone, on a dreary cliff side path, one of these men could be found. Highly regarded as one of the most dangerous outlaws in Albion, this man leaned lazily against a signpost, gazing at the ancient and yellowed map in his hands. He wore heeled and buckled boots of worn leather, and his clothes were of a light but sturdy fabric, stained by long hours of travel and sea-spray.

He lifted his shockingly light blue eyes, surveying the coast line, then dropped them back down to the map, fidgeting with the golden hoop in his ear. "Curse ye. Useless thing." He muttered, folding the map and tucking it into the breast pocket of his coat. The outlaw strode to the edge of a sheer drop off, eyes narrowing as he gazed down over the cliff.

This man's name was Raphael. He led a scruffy gang of Bandits and Pirates out of Bloodstone (which even in these times was a lawless pit, filled to the brim with crooks, drunkards, vagabonds, whores and thieves). He wasn't an evil man, not in the typical sense. Yes he stole, yes he killed (when necessary), but was he one of those that wanted the world in his hands? No. He was simply greedy. He lusted for gold, wealth, women, possessions, followers.

On this particular day, he was out on the coast, looking for an old cave which was reputed (according to the map he had 'obtained') to hold items of great worth. Treasure, in other words. And Raphael was never one to pass up on unclaimed treasure.

His handsome face broke into a troubled frown as he gazed up and down the cliff face. The map had said that the cave should be here, or very close by. Of course, the map was old, ancient even. The land would have changed. Perhaps the cave was no longer reachable, or had collapsed, or had disappeared into the sea.

The sound of footsteps broke into his thoughts, and he turned swiftly, hand dropping to the hilt of the sword girt by his side.

"Raph, me cully, I found yer cave!" One of his crew mates came jogging up the path, slightly out of breath, but nevertheless filled with excitement.

Raphael's face broke into a wild smile, and he started forwards. "Aye! Lady Luck smiles upon us, matey!" he clapped his comrade on the shoulder, eyes flashing with excitement. "Whar be this cave? Tarry not, fer I'd like t' see it wi' me own eyes."

The pirate led Raphael along a broken and disused path, which became treacherously steep and slippery not too far from where it broke away from the road. They moved at a crawling pace, winding their way down the cliff face, eventually coming to the cave.

"Avo guide us…" Raphael whispered, taking a step into the dark maw. Stalagmites and stalactites hung from the ceiling, and the steady drip of unseen water echoed throughout the cavern. "Thar be treasure here, wager me last gold piece on that."

He took a few steps in, squinting into the pitch black. It was no good, the darkness was too thick to permeate. "Light me a torch, cully." He called over his shoulder to the Pirate, and in moments, a flaming brand was held aloft in his hand.

It was a few seconds before he realized he was venturing into this cave alone. He turned on his heel, shooting his companion a glance. "Are ye not coming? Have ye lost yer guts?"

He pirate shook his head quickly. "Nay, but I'd not enter yon darkness, not fer all the gold in Albion!"

Raphael shook his head, grabbing the pirate by the shirt and dragging him in. "Move yer feet, ye lilly-livered curr." He snarled, shoving the man into the cave. The bandit would never admit it, but he had a similar feeling to his companion. This was a bad idea, but the lure of gold and jewels was far too strong for him.

They didn't have to go far to reach the "treasure". Not far in, on a tiny island surrounded by a few feet of icy cold and slowly running water, was an ancient, moss covered chest. "This be it…" Raphael wasn't surprised to hear his voice trembling. His comrade hesitated, taking a few steps back. Once again, Raphael seized a handful of his tunic and held him. "Don't be turnin' yeller on me, mate." He said, raising his eyebrows threateningly. "Ye expect me t' carry the loot out on me onesie? Git walkin', ere I spill yer cowardly guts."

He strode through the water, half dragging his companion with him. They reached the chest, standing either side of it, gazing down at it. It seemed to call to Raphael, enticing him to take his reward.

"Garn, open it." He muttered, gesturing towards the chest. His companion looked horrified at the mere thought of it, but after taking note of the gleam in Raphael's eyes, he knew there was nothing for it. The pirate dropped to a knee, fumbling with the heavy latch. The lock was rusted beyond recognition, and a few quick strikes from the short bladed axe he carried were enough to break it. It fell to the ground, and he flipped the lid of the chest open. Raphael leaned forwards, expectant, excited.

The chest, however, was almost empty, except for a bundle of rags at the bottom. Raphael stared at them in surprise for a moment, then quickly glared at his companion. "Well? Are ye waiting for? A sign fro Avo?"

"Nay, nay!" The pirate reached into the chest and pulled out the bundle. He removed the rags to reveal a very old and extremely ornate white mask, decorated in black and red. There was something very…. Alive, about this mask. Something sinister.

"A mask? A bleedin' mask?" roared Raphael, kicking the lid of the chest closed in his annoyance. "D'ye know what I went through t' get that bloody map?"

The other man paid no heed to Raphael's ranting, simply staring transfixed at the mask in his hands. It seemed to thrum with a dark energy, and he had a sudden desire to wear it.

"…all fer a mask!" Raphael threw his arms up in disgust, staring moodily back down towards the pinprick of light that was the mouth of the cave. The other man, however, had given in to his sudden desires. Slowly, he pressed the mask to his face.

Instantly, he let out a high, keening shriek, and red light blasted seemingly from his eyes and mouth. A dense crimson fog obscured him, and he was lifted into the air.

"What're ye doing?" Raphael screamed, turning around and staring, transfixed with sheer horror, at the sight before him. The man's wails of agony slowly subsided, fading into nothingness, and the cave shook with ancient power.

From within the red fog came a burst of manic, high pitched laughter, and the crimson eyes that had haunted Weaver's sleep burned brightly in the mist. As soon as it appeared, the aura retracted into the shape of a hooded man, who's outline glowed in the darkness, before solidifying and touching back down on the ground.

For a moment, Raphael stared into those dead eyes, those wicked coals. He couldn't move, couldn't speak. This was beyond comprehension. The evil creature eyed him closely, and a dark humour crept into those eyes. He leaned forward. "…Boo!"

Raphael let out a silent scream of terror and fell back, sprawling on the sandy floor of the cave. He gazed up at the monster, then was seized by a sudden bout of courage. He scrambled to his feet and drew his sword with a flurry and a snarl, an act which made the creature titter lightly behind the mask. "Ye'll not take me, demon." He growled, brandishing his sword.

"Demon? Oh yes, I like that." The masked man laughed. "Although you seem to think that I'm going to kill you… Is that so?"

Raphael looked slightly perplexed, but kept his blade raised. "Aye, o' course. What else d' ye and yer kin do but kill?"

"Oh, we do many things. Like, offer people everything they could ever desire." The demon's voice dropped to barely a whisper, but Raphael heard every word.

"Offer… Everything?"

The monster took a step towards him, admittedly impressed by Raphael's courage when he didn't turn tail and flee. "Yes, yes indeed." He paused, tilting his head slightly, his red eyes glowing brightly. "I know your type. All the gold you could spend, all the ale you can drink… All the pleasurable company in the world. I could give it to you."

The tip of Raphael's sword dropped a few inches, his eyes softening as he imagined himself surrounded by wealth and women. It seemed too good to be true. "Aye, I b'lieve ye could. But who are ye t' make such an offer? And there must be a catch."

The demon laughed, nodding. "Fair questions indeed my friend. I shall answer them in the order asked. I, am Jack of Blades. Perhaps you've heard that name? Judging by how pale you've become all of a sudden, I take it you have. Your second question, I believe, was what was the catch? No catch. I have a dream, a dream of Albion falling at my feet. As powerful as I am, I could not do this alone. I would need… followers. And rest assured, my followers are rewarded extravagantly."

So, this creature, this demon who had been brought back to life by Raphael's own acts, was none other than Jack of Blades. A thousand questions rose to his lips, all of them pertaining as to how he could be here, when he died so long ago. "He were never alive t' begin with… Ye can't kill summat which isn't alive…" Spoke a small voice in his head.

An involuntary shudder ran up Raphael's spine at the very notion. But there was something in Jack's words which had caught his interest. "Reward, ye say? All the gold, and women I could ask for?"

Jack nodded slowly. Mortals were so easy to manipulate. Too easy, almost. Why, this one knew exactly who he was, yet at the promise of a few carnal pleasures, he was ready to fall at Jack's feet. "Might I hear your name, lad?" he asked in a horribly polite voice.

"Raphael. Raphael LeMounde, at yer service." He swept Jack a short bow, lifting his hat off his long golden locks which had been swept back into a ponytail. "I believe… I believe we may be able t' look after one another, Jack."

"Oh yes, I think we could become quite good friends." Jack uttered another high, cold laugh. Raphael had signed a deal with the devil himself. Jack of Blades was reborn.


	6. Chapter 5: A light in the Dark

**CHAPTER FIVE:** A light in the dark.

"You're sure of it, Guildmaster?"

"Yes, Tarrant. There's no doubt about it. Jack has returned."

The old man's face was crestfallen, and suddenly, he looked a thousand years old. Upon Jack's return, 2 weeks after his dream, a sudden burst of icy cold fear spiked his heart. It couldn't be misunderstood. The monster had awakened.

Weaver glanced over at Tarrant, the one would-be Hero he'd managed to recruit in his time as Guildmaster. They had met in the woods near Knothole Glade, and he had assisted Weaver in driving a pack of marauding Balverines from the village. With a blade in his hand, Tarrant had resembled a hero of the old days. Where he had obtained such skill was beyond Weaver's comprehension. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth…" He'd thought to himself on the cold, wet day.

The second day after returning to the Guild, Weaver had been sitting by the fire in the Entrance Hall, reading a rather interesting story titled "The Fall of Lucien Fairfax", when the Oak Doors had swung open, and Tarrant himself had strode in. 6 and a half feet tall with a shaggy mop of shoulder length hair (black, but with flecks of gray), barrel-chested, a longsword strapped to his back, he had smiled down from the doorway at the old Guildmaster, before requesting that he be allowed to join the Guild.

Weaver couldn't have asked for a better first Hero. Tarrant was skilful and brave, but also a quick and eager learner. He had taken Weaver's lessons in his stride, and even managed to produce a decently strong Shock spell.

Now, the tall man placed his hand on Weaver's shoulder, a troubled look crossing his weather-beaten face. "We will rise to meet him, Weaver." He said stoutly.

"Yes, yes. Of course we will." Weaver muttered in reply. "But Jack is… Well, Jack! He's unbeatable, impossibly powerful and insane to boot. As strong as you are, he'd tear you to pieces with both hands tied behind his back. No one ever rivaled his strength. Not I, not William, not Maze, only…" He sat up straight, eyes wide.

"What is it?" asked Tarrant. "Only who?"

"The Jackslayer. He defeated Jack in ages past. Not once, but twice." Weaver's eyes were full of eager anticipation. "Surely you know the story of the Jackslayer? The Hero of Oakvale?"

"Yes, of course." Replied Tarrant, his eyes narrowing. "But he vanished, hundreds of years ago. Thousands even. He can't help us. Neither can the Sword of Aeons. It was destroyed, as I'm sure you know."

"I know. But he defeated Jack, whilst the demon _wielded _the Sword!" he stood quickly, pacing back and forth. "If he were here, why, Jack and his minions wouldn't stand a chance! They'd be defeated before-"

"Weaver." Tarrant's slow, deep voice cut across Weaver's vocalized thoughts. "He's dead, long gone. He's not going to come riding in on a white horse and save us all. We'll have to handle this on our own."

Weaver smiled. "That's where you're wrong. You're forgetting that I, too, am supposed to be dead. I was in my grave whilst the Hero of Oakvale still walked the Earth."

Silence met this statement. Tarrant's mouth opened, and then closed. Of course, Weaver had been returned to life by the powers of Scythe and the magic of the Chamber of Fate. Would the same work for the Jackslayer?

"I believe, Tarrant, that I will be able to summon him here, as William did with me. Although it will take time, for I do not know that magic off the top of my head. It is very old magic, from the Old Kingdom, as it were."

"How will you do it?" asked Tarrant, finally regaining his voice.

"You're forgetting that many items were left undamaged in the Chamber of Fate. One of them just so happens to be a very old grimoire, from the days of the Archons." He said this all very slowly and deliberately. "I never thought it would be needed, but fate, it seems, has other plans."

"What do you need me to do, Weaver?" Tarrant straightened his posture, gripping the hilt of his sword. His face was set and determined.

"In the morning, you'll need to address that situation with the Hobbes in Greatwood. Then, I believe, a pair of traders are seeking an escort from Brightwood to Westcliff."

"Yes, and… Beg your pardon?" Tarrant's stance became slightly less rigid, as confusion hit him. "No, I meant, help with reviving the Hero."

"Take care of the Hobbes in Greatwood, then see about escorting the Traders." Weaver repeated, smiling and nodding. "The best help you can give me is to continue on with the mission of the Guild. Defend people, destroy evil."

Tarrant opened his mouth to argue, and then it fell shut. He was right. What good would a Heroes Guild be if both members were hiding underground, trying to revive a fallen comrade, when there were still people to defend?

"Very well, Guildmaster. I trust your judgment." He nodded respectfully to the old man, although part of him still wished to help with bringing the Jackslayer back to life.

The next morning, as Tarrant set off towards the towering Greatwood (even greater than the original had been, according to Weaver's memory), Weaver stood alone in the Chamber of Fate. He was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the steps leading to the raised Guild Seal, an old and leather bound tome open in front of him. His lips moved soundlessly as he read from the book.

It was difficult to decipher, as it was written in an odd variation of the Archon tongue, used exclusively by the old magicians. He felt it would take him a day or two to work out the jumble of words and runes, then perhaps even longer to summon the Hero. He had no fears of Jack attacking immediately, of course. So a few days didn't seem like much to him, not yet anyway. They could afford the time, so to speak. Chances were Jack knew nothing of the Guild yet…


	7. Chapter 6: A flaw in the Plan

**CHAPTER SIX:** A flaw in the plan.

After 3 days of meditation and consulting the grimoire, Weaver finally rose from the ground. His back and joints popped noisily, and he let out a wince of pain. "I'm getting far too old for this." He grumbled, holding the book open in one palm and massaging his lower back with the other.

Nevertheless, when he retreated to the raised plinth at the end of the hall, he stood upright without even a hint of discomfort. His face was set and determined.

He set the book on the plinth, shook back his sleeves and raised his arms to the ceiling. Within seconds, the hall was bathed in pulsating blue light, seeming to emit from the old Guildmaster himself. Weaver was calling on the power of the Chamber of Fate, a colossal power in its own right.

Slowly, he began to chant words in an ancient tongue, the words stringing together to form something that resembled song. His voice echoed off the stone walls of the Chamber, making it seem as though hundreds of voices joined the song, adding their own disjointed and discordant harmonies to the tune.

A vicious wind swept through the chamber, and the blue light drifted from Weaver's hands towards the Seal in the centre of the room. It formed a vast column in the very centre of the chamber, and the walls shook with the energy pulsating from the light.

Weaver's chanting stopped, but the energy and the wind did not die out. If anything they intensified. Seeming to wait on a cue from the wizened old Hero.

Just as Scythe had done when he had resurrected Weaver, the old Hero now spoke a single name. The name of the Jackslayer. That name was….

"David Chase!" Whisper's voice echoed through the Entrance Hall of the Heroes Guild, the young dark skinned Hero jogging lightly up the steps towards the map table. "FARM BOY!"

The boy who would grow up to be the Hero of Oakvale stopped, his hand on the iron ring of the front doors, and turned, a smile growing on his face. "Do you mind, Whisper? I'm on important Guild business, you know."

"Oh don't give me that, farm boy." She teased, giving him a playful push. "Important Guild business indeed. Off to throw drunks out of the Bowerstone Tavern, no doubt."

"As a matter of fact, I'm escorting two traders through the very deadly paths of Darkwood." He said, lifting his nose in a rather snooty fashion. "You've probably never been to Darkwood. They only send the best and bravest in there."

"Oh?" Whisper raised a brow imperiously. "Then why would they send you? Surely the best and bravest don't leave the Guild without their Guild Seals."

David shot her a quizzical look, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Forget their…" His expression changed to something that resembled mild panic, and he began patting his pockets hurriedly. "Rats! I knew I forgot something!" he made to sprint off towards his room, and then skidded to a halt when Whisper called back to him, nearly knocking over another Hero who was perusing the map table for quests. ("Watch where you're going, Chicken Chaser!" muttered the disgruntled hero.

"Relax, Davey. I brought it for you. Here." She held the golden disc out to him. "Honestly, you'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on."

"Thanks, Whisper, I owe you one." David said, giving her a pat on the back and accepting the Seal. "Tell you what, when we get back from the Barrow Fields markets, I'll help you fix that little problem with your fighting stance so it's not so easy for me to beat you when we train."

"You're on, farm boy." Whisper said with a grin and a wink, pulling the door open for the young Hero. "Best run along. Those poor defenseless Traders need their brave and mighty hero." She swept him a comical bow, chuckling under her breath.

David gave her a half-hearted shove as he jogged out of the doors and up the road. Past the podium where a hero was boasting loudly to the people that he could take down a whole Hobbe cave in his underwear, up the hill and along the tree lined path towards Lookout Point.

There was a Cullis Gate right before the borders of Greatwood, and this was where the Traders would meet him. To save time, he grasped the Guild Seal, and he glowed with blue mana.

He was focused on the Cullis Gate, right on the edge of Greatwood, when he heard a voice. It was the Guildmaster, Weaver. And he said two words.

"David Chase."

The column of light in the centre of the Chamber solidified, and out from it's velvety blue depths stepped Chicken Chaser.

The boy's eyes widened as he stared around at the cavernous Chamber, the Guild Seal falling from his hand with an echoing clank. His gaze danced across the battered portraits and collages of the life he would never live, the dilapidated ceiling, the broken floor. Then up to Weaver.

Weaver was staring at him in disbelief. 'No, this can't be right. I followed the spell to the letter. But he can't be older than 18.' He thought to himself.

"G-Guildmaster!" Something that resembled fear cut through David's surprise; The look on Weaver's face made him feel like he'd just teleported into the Guildmaster's private chambers. "I'm ever so sorry, sir! I was heading out to Greatwood, and I'm not sure what happened. I just… Arrived here."

No reply from the old Guildmaster. He was transfixed. The boy seemed not to realize what had happened.

"I didn't mean to come… Here." He glanced around the chamber again, and his youthful intrigue got the better of him. "Um, where are we, sir?"

Weaver heaved a sigh. "We are in the Chamber of Fate, lad." He said, slowly walking towards the young hero. "It is an ancient Chamber, built underneath the Guild. But the question I feel you should be asking is 'When are we'."

David's face worked in confusion for a moment, still having no idea what Weaver meant. "When, Guildmaster?" he repeated the question. "What do you mean, 'When'?"

"If I'm right in assuming that you are a little under a year past graduating, then 'when' happens to be more than 3 and a half thousand years in the future."

Dead silence met this rather grim statement. David furrowed his brow, not sure if Weaver was joking, or perhaps pulling a prank on him. The look on the old man's face was enough to tell him that this was no joke. "But… But how?"

The old man sighed again, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. How could he tell him that he, Weaver, dragged him from the past to fight a battle he'd already fought? Or, would have fought. Damn, this whole mess made Weaver's head hurt. "I will explain everything in due time. But for now, please head upstairs and practice your lessons."

"But Guildmaster, I…"

"Please, Lad." He said again. "Head upstairs and work on your lessons." He needed a few moments alone to gather his thoughts. How could he explain what has happened?

The boy looked as though he was on the verge of protesting, but instead nodded glumly. "Yes, Guildmaster." He gripped the sword at his waist and turned on his heel, heading up the stairs and out of the Chamber.

Weaver sank into a chair beside the plinth, his head in his hands. What had gone so wrong? He had done everything he had to in order to revive the mighty Hero. Had there been a flaw in the spell?

As he pondered, the column of light in the centre podium burst forth again, and Weaver lifted his wide eyes towards it.


	8. Chapter 7: Enlistment

**CHAPTER SEVEN:** Enlistment.

"Tell me, boy. Are there Heroes in this age of the world?"

Raphael shuddered slightly at the icy voice of Jack, somewhat beginning to regret his decision to side with him. "Heroes? I'm not familiar with the term. But if ye mean folks strong wi' the blade or bow, aye. There be folk like that."

The pair fell into silence again as they walked along the path towards Bloodstone, Jack's evil mind working double time.

"Wait a mo'…" Raphael muttered, thinking on the word 'Hero'. "Aye, I be hearin' that term before, from a fellow who lives atop the hill in Bloodstone. The way he tells it, he's a survivor from the old days." The pirate shook his head, a wry smirk touching his lips. "But that's bollocks. Reaver only looks a few year older than me self."

"This Reaver… Has he ever mentioned the Guild?" Jack asked, his intrigue growing.

"Guild? Nay, not a guild. But he calls himself the Hero of Skill, whatever that may be." Where was Jack going with this? Did he truly believe that Reaver was a Hero from the old times?

"Hmm… The Hero of Skill… Could he be the one who slew Lord Lucian? Surely he died when the Shadow Court was destroyed… Unless of course… Yes, that must be it." The demon seemed to be thinking aloud, and Raphael didn't want to interrupt him in his musings.

"Yes, I will go see him. And if he is indeed the Hero of Skill, the Reaver of the old stories, he will be a very valuable ally."

Something wasn't sitting right with Raphael. Working up the courage, he asked, "Forgive me, cully. But how can ye be knowing about Reaver if ye spent the last 3,000 years in a chest?"

Jack turned his dead eyes on Raphael, chucking his cold laughter. "Jack always knows, boy. Jack always knows. Now, run along to Bloodstone, and find me a group of the best fighters in town. I have a meeting with the Hero of Skill to attend to."

The Demon was suddenly bathed in a red glow, and with another cackling laugh, he disappeared from the cliff side path. Raphael felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the icy wind, and set off down the path towards Bloodstone.

Reaver, meanwhile, was enjoying a glass of brandy by the fire in his stately manor atop the hill in Bloodstone. He wasn't as rich, nor as famous as he'd been in the days of Reaver Industries, but he was still rather well to do. And the bandits and thieves of Bloodstone new not to trifle with him, even if they didn't believe his stories.

A knock at the door brought Reaver out of his musings about the old days, and after quickly checking his appearance in a small hand mirror, he strode to the door and pulled it open. "Hello hello!" he said pompously, leaning in the doorway, his ruffled white shirt unbuttoned down to the chest and his most charming smile fixed to his features. "What can Reaver do for-huh?"

He blinked a few times, looking out into the courtyard. The empty courtyard. "Hello?" he called, taking a few steps out along the cobbled path, keeping a hand on the door. "Hmm." He said with a shrug, and walked back inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Such a charming home, Hero." Came a cold voice from all around him, and Jack of Blades stepped out of the shadows, cackling as usual.

In the blink of an eye, Reaver had drawn both of his Dragonstomper pistols and pointed them at Jack's heart (or where a heart would be). His voice was calm and quiet, his face passive. "Rather rude, entering someone's home without permission." He said softly, thumbing back the hammers. "Horrible manners indeed. I should blow you away."

"You could try." Jack tittered lightly, his red eyes boring into Reaver's dark brown ones. "You'd fail, but you could try. Go on, pull the trigger."

Reaver raised his eyebrows, gripping his pistols tightly. 'What are you afraid of? This mask wearing freak? Come now Reaver, you've taken down more impressive than him.' He thought to himself.

"Oh but that's where you're wrong." Jack said lightly. "You've never faced anything as deadly as this… what was it… Mask wearing freak?" He paused for a moment, then let out a cold, high cackle at Reaver's shocked face. "Why don't you put those admirable little weapons away and take a seat. There's much I'd like to speak with you about."

Reaver held his pistols for a moment longer, then slipped them back into their holsters with a flurry. "You have some nerve, offering me a seat in my own home." He muttered, but took the seat indicated nonetheless. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jack, Jack of Blades." The demon's eyes flickered wickedly. "And you are Reaver, the Hero of Skill, slayer of Lord Lucian. We seem to know of one another, don't we?"

"Y-yes." For the first time since… Well, he couldn't remember the last time his composure had been shaken so much. He wondered how Jack had managed to return from death, but in truth, it didn't really matter. The devil was in his home. "And what would one such as yourself ask of me? For you surely didn't come here to admire my rather gorgeous manor."

"Straight to the point, I see." Jack said with a slow nod. "I'll be blunt, then. I'm in need of warriors, Reaver. I have a plan, for Albion to fall at my feet. And as incredibly powerful as I am, I cannot do it alone. I'll need soldiers, and Heroes like yourself to lead those soldiers."

"Mhmm…" Reaver sounded almost bored. "And what would I get out of an allegiance with you, pray tell?"

"Anything you desire. Your old fame and fortune back, all the gold you could spend, all the women and men you could ever lust for." Jack leaned towards him, and even though his face was hidden, Reaver knew that the devil was smiling. "All of it could be yours again."

"Intriguing." The Hero muttered, stroking his chin with his delicate fingers. "And what guarantee do I have that you'll come through, if I agree to help?"

Jack pondered this question for a few moments, and when he spoke, his voice was full of that icy cold calculation once again. "Think of it this way; You can take me at my word and stand at my side. Or, you can oppose me, and burn with the rest of this wretched world."

Reaver needed no more convincing. "Very well, you shall have my assistance when the time comes."

Jack cackled evilly, gripping Reaver's shoulder in a cold, vice-like grip in one of his gauntleted hands. "The time has already arrived, Hero of Skill."


	9. Chapter 8: Little Sparrow

**CHAPTER EIGHT:** Little Sparrow.

A slender figure stepped out into Chamber of Fate, her dark brown eyes blinking slowly in confusion. Slowly, her look of confusion shifted to one of annoyance. "Sod it all, I was just here." She grumbled, looking down at the Guild Seal Theresa had given to her moments before.

Weaver looked on in astonishment from his position by the plinth, staring at this oddly dressed girl (for she surely could not be much older than David, if not the same age) and the dog which had materialized beside her.

The dog let out a whine, nuzzling the back of the girl's hand. "And what's the matter with you, Boy?" she asked, kneeling beside him and scratching behind his ears. "It's okay, we'll just have to find another way out. C'mon, maybe we can find a way up one of these…" She then spotted the old man, standing at the other end of the room. In a flash, her crossbow was on him, the arrow tightly drawn. "Who are you? And where is Theresa?" she said threateningly.

'She surely must be a Hero…' Weaver thought to himself. 'But from when? It's plain enough that she comes from a time long after the Guild fell.' He stepped down the steps and began walking along the bridge towards the centre podium. "Lower your weapon, dear. I mean you no harm. My name is Weaver." He said calmly.

The girl kept the sight trained on Weaver for a few more moments, then when she noticed Boy wagging his tail brightly, she lowered the weapon. If her faithful canine companion was willing to let his guard down, so was she. "Where is Theresa?" she asked again, somewhat less politely than she normally would have.

"She is long gone." Weaver began, ascending the podium and stopping a few feet from her. "And you, I'm afraid, are hundreds, maybe thousands of years ahead in time."

A blank look from the girl. "Come again?" she asked, turning an ear towards him. Either she'd misheard, or the old man was completely senile.

"Judging from your attire, I'd say you lived in the brief period before the Kingdom of Albion was formed. When Lord Lucien Fairfax ruled over Bowerstone." He halted a few feet from her. "Am I right?"

The girl's face darkened, and she clenched her fists. "Lucien. That bastard killed my sister. And I plan to return the gesture, as soon as I find my way out of here." After hearing Lucien's name, she had ignored the rest of Weaver's words.

Weaver, meanwhile, was still trying to figure out who this girl was. No doubt a Hero, but not one of the three. Neither Hammer nor Garth wielded a crossbow, for one. And Reaver was still alive to this day. "Might I know your name, child?"

"Sparrow." She said, after taking a breath. "And this is Boy. Forgive me for being blunt, Weaver, was it? But I have a rather important quest ahead of me. And since this useless hunk of metal doesn't work, I'd kindly like you to point me in the direction of Castle Fairfax."

Weaver sighed heavily again. What had he done? "You'll have to forgive me, Sparrow. But Castle Fairfax is no more. Lucien died over 25 hundred years ago. The Power of this Chamber has pulled you from the past, into the present. I'm terribly sorry."

She stared at him for a few moments, eyebrows raised. "Is… is this some kind of joke?" she asked incredulously. "If it is, I don't much like your sense of humour."

"I wish it was, I truly wish it was."

The annoyed look vanished from Sparrow's face, and she dropped to her knees, completely crestfallen. Boy nuzzled up to her, sensing something amiss with his master, and she distractedly ran her fingers through the dog's thick coat. She'd lost her chance at revenge, and it began to eat her up.

Weaver could almost feel her pain. He didn't interrupt her, nor make any move to comfort her. She needed a few moments to gather herself, he could see that. It would only anger her if he interrupted.

"Why?" she asked, looking up at Weaver, a look of despair on her rather beautiful face. "Why was I robbed of my vengeance? My sister…"

"There is a great power threatening Albion." Weaver explained. "One that brought the world to it's knees, long before your time. I alone could not stand up to this threat, and so I summoned a Hero from the past to aid me. The Chamber itself must have picked you for this fight."

"So… I'm expected to fight this thing?" she asked after a few seconds of thought. "I'm needed to face this… this great power? Quite frankly, I don't care about this sodding threat. I want to go back and put my blade through Lucien's heart." Anger began to rise in Sparrow, and she wasn't shocked to notice her hands shaking as she stood.

"What is done cannot be undone. I wish I could send you back, I truly do." The sincerity in his voice was enough to quell the girl's indignation and rage. "You are not expected to do anything. But you have the blood of Hero inside you. You will have a part in this war to come, whether it be with Albion or against it."

To destroy, or save? To protect, or to conquer? In Sparrow's mind, the choice was simple. Lucien was dead, and although it hadn't been by her hand, she felt that Rose had been avenged. Despite longing to go back and fight, Weaver was right. What is done cannot be undone. "Very well. I'll stand with you. And Albion. Although I don't know what use I'll be. I'm handy with a blade and crossbow, but I'm nothing like the Heroes of old."

"Not yet." Weaver said, the first smile touching his face since David's arrival. "But you will, mark my words."

Sparrow doubted that very highly indeed but chose not to argue the point. "What am I to do now?" she asked, with another look around the room.

"If you'd be so kind…" Weaver dropped to a knee and picked up Chicken-Chaser's Guild Seal. "… A young man will be upstairs in the grounds. This belongs to him. I need a moment to collect my thoughts, and those stairs can be a curse on my old bones. Would you take it to him?"

"Alright…" she said slowly, taking the Seal and compared it to her own. The one Theresa had given her was battered and worn. The indentation had faded a great deal, and the emeralds set in its face were dim. The other looked brand new, not long from the furnace. It near sparkled in her hands. She began walking towards the stairs, giving a sharp whistle, and the mutt sprang up from his position on the floor, bounding off after her.


End file.
